Tag Archives: erotic novel

Eros the Trickster – A Guest Blog by Monique Roffey (@MoniqueRoffey13)

Guest Blogger, , , , , ,

Erotic love is the trickster love, isn’t it? Eros, the bastard, is a cherub and pest a manipulator. He draws back his bow, lets his arrow fly and then, bam. If he chooses you, you’re stuffed. It’s one thing if you’ve been struck by Eros and so has your love interest. Then you both go down; but get to walk away, hand in hand into a brave new day. If erotic love is mutual between two people, then, happy days. Often people get married on the strength of this mutual sexual love interest. But what if Eros strikes only you, or, only you first? Then, it’s an agony to be the one who has been struck. A complex has been triggered, the anima or the animus, and therein follows much pain, heartache and sometimes even humiliation. We suffer.

“Eros is stronger than the go,” my shrink once said to me. Yes, this kind of love is strong and we can topple over, or be dragged over, and sometimes swiftly. One minute we are rational-minded, thoughtful and grounded, the next we are ‘stupidy’ (as we say in Trinidad), and have taken leave of our senses. It’s a kind of moral death, too, or brain malfunction. We have been struck. We do things that are unethical (shag another’s husband or partner, for example). It’s a condition, a kind of brain fever. I’ve seen the best of us go under. Sometimes we suffer for months, even longer. An unrequited erotic attraction to another person – that’s a hard one. Yuk. Also, it’s hard to walk way from, too. And hard to set yourself straight; hard to keep the whole thing in its proper perspective, because Eros is a powerful player in the forces of the sexual love game. He tricks us, and we capitulate. Over we go. Eros sets the proverbial cat amongst the pigeons. Eros is a chaos element, the Fool in the Tarot, not the Lovers card; he is the Magician, too. Eros sets us on our travels; Eros is a cosmic bum, a Fool, and a fooler too.

In my sexy new novel The Tryst, Eros arrives in female form, in the small red haired beauteous character of Lilah. Lilah the domme, the imp, the pest, the player, the predator. An innocent couple Bill and Jane invite her into their home and she wreaks havoc on them and delights in it. She mashes them up, changes things between them, forever. That is her habit and her great kink, to fuck Innocents like Jane and Bill. Hit and run, leaving them wanting more. She is the great seducer, a Lilatha, a game changer. She’s done it many times, taken herself out on a night hunt, drained the man of his power, left him sleeping, and climbed out the window. This time, she is caught, though. This time she too is struck by another pesky imp, Eros. Bam. Over she goes.

*****

The Tryst, (Dodo Ink)

Extract

By Monique Roffey

LILAH

I scared Miss Sexual Desert good and proper, but found myself quite shaken too. In the cab on the way back I touched my cheek where she’d slapped me twice. The sting was still there, surprising. Heat in her after all, the little prig. I don’t think she believed what I said about me and Bill; I could hardly believe what I’d said myself, that I was journeying back to Bill, paying a cab to take me to him. Something has happened between me and Bill. What had been happening to me? Being outdoors in the fresh air had given me a taste of reality again. Whatever had been going on in that creepy house between us had to stop. It was only twenty-four hours since I’d met this dreary couple in a bar, a pair like so many others – Jane and Bill, Janet and Joe, Mary and Pete, just like many I’d encountered. Same deal.

And yet this time it had been different. I hadn’t escaped so easily. I’d prevaricated because of this new feeling. I hastily took stock. I had stayed on a hunt long after the kill. I had met a lover in the form of a man in the human realm. A First. Bill could meet me, match my skills. Bill had located my spot, caused me to gush like no other, not even Samael. And – was there more? There had been another aspect which I found hard to name, a feeling which had swiftly passed over me during our hours of sexing. It had been a flash of a rich, full feeling. I had felt an empathy with Bill, like he was more than just a mortal man. Bill had stirred me up and I wasn’t accustomed to this chaotic mixture of feelings inside.

Whatever these new ‘feelings’ were or had been, they had disappeared. Vamoosed. I couldn’t remember them. Love? Ha. I felt like my old self again. I felt itchy. Loose. I wanted to be on my way, back into the forest. I remembered the cat, Choo Choo. I thought of the hexacious tower I’d created, amidst all that iron. I had stamped my mark on this couple, I always do. I had reconfigured things between them, and that was what the wife had wanted me to do. Too bad if she had changed her mind. Too bad. And Bill, well, he had given me a turn. I had taken my life in my hands to have intercourse with him. He was one to remember. Okay, I said to myself: there’s nothing like experience. This man Bill has been a first. I will go and say goodbye to him.

Bill greeted me at the door with decisive amorous kisses. I’d only been gone a couple of hours, but already he wanted more of my talents; he was tugging at my clothes, trying to remove my skirt. I pushed him off. That constant shocked expression had disappeared. He looked different. Pinker in the cheeks. He wanted more of me and I’d had enough of him.

“Thank God you’re back. I fell asleep, didn’t find your note at first. I . . . panicked.”

“I went to see your wife.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I wish I hadn’t.”

“I wish you hadn’t either. What did she say?”

“What do you think she said? The usual jealous wife stuff. Do you care?” A strange look came into his eyes. Soft. Thoughtful.

“I don’t want you to disappear like that again.” I stared at him. “What are you saying?” Bill wanted to keep me there. He’d struck gold and fuck, shit, damn and hell – yes, he was expecting I might even like to stay with him!

“Me? Stay here with you in this creepy old house, with all these red and yellow walls – me? You freakin kidding me?”

“We can paint them white – or black – or whatever you want. Just stay, another night, at least. Stay a week. A month. However long you like. I was . . . worried.”

“Why should I stay?”

“For the same reason other imps like you have stayed with men. To be happy. Wouldn’t you like it here? What’s your home like? A hut? A bender made of twigs? An earth-floored cave in the woods? Do you live underground? Eh? What? Surely this must have some appeal?”

“Get lost,” I snarled.

“Always so mean, eh? Is that it? I’m to be chewed up and spat out, is that right?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“And where’s my cat, eh? Choo Choo. Where is he? Scared him off too?”

“Oh, fuck your cat.”

“Have you fucked my cat?” He said this with a knowing smirk.

I threw myself at Bill, tore at him and wreaked my vengeance and distaste on him and their Goddamn marriage. I turned nasty on him, biting him and this time when we were fucking we were like cats fighting. Furniture tumbled around us. Again, I was matched.

Bill pinned me down and then he fucked me senseless and dear-God-in-heaven more than anything – this was not okay. This was why I fled in the first place, to be so taken like this by the very first man ever made. Rape. It was all women were to expect. And so my foremother Lilith ran and ran away from man and God, only to be further humiliated in the desert. She was so angry then, she made daemons, thousands of them every day, her offspring. She became an outcast, forever. I spat at Bill and fought, but he held me down and then he fucked me hard and rough and a pearly liquid gushed from between my legs, a silken waterfall slipping out. My whole body spasmed in the fullness of my orgasm. He could make me come just like that. It was as if he’d learnt the knack. And all the while I thought: I am lost, lost. Go home, get out of here. I was embarrassed, torn open. I hated him then. I didn’t want to look Bill in the eye. He thought he now had some power over me because he could make me gush. When he was done he withdrew, his own body shuddering, his semen still dripping. His cock hadn’t shrivelled with the release, it still looked plump and even ready for more. Bill glowed, exulted with his conquest. I’m sure he thought he’d turned a trick himself. He kissed my stomach. But I was cold to him, cold in my heart.

*****

The Tryst, blurb

By Monique Roffey

London, midsummer night. Jane and Bill meet the mysterious Lilah in a bar. She entrances the couple with half-true, mixed up tales about her life. At closing time, Jane makes an impulsive decision to invite Lilah back to their home. But Jane has made a catastrophic error of judgment, for Lilah is a skilled and ruthless predator, the likes of which few encounter in a lifetime. Isolated and cursed, Jane and Bill are forced to fight for each other, and, in doing so, discover their covert desires.

Part psychological thriller, part contemporary magical realism, The Tryst revisits the tale of Adam’s first wife, Lilith, to examine the secrets of an everyday marriage.

*****

Praise for The Tryst

“What makes The Tryst an unexploded virus isn’t just the quality and brightness of Roffey’s writing on sex, even as it uncovers inner glades between flesh and fantasy where sex resides – but the taunting clarity of why those glades stay covered. A throbbing homewrecker of a tale, too late to call Fifty Shades of Red.”

DBC Pierre, Booker Prize winner

*****

BIOG

Monique Roffey is an award-winning Trinidadian-born writer. Her novels have been translated into five languages and short-listed for major awards including
the Orange Prize, Costa Fiction Award, Encore Award, Orion Award and the OCM Bocas Award for Caribbean Literature. In 2013, Archipelago won the OCM BOCAS Award for Caribbean Literature. Her memoir, With the Kisses of his Mouth, was published in 2011. She is a Lecturer on the MFA in the Novel at Manchester Metropolitan University. She divides her time between the East end of London and Port of Spain, Trinidad.

Buy at Amazon:

UK: http://amzn.to/2snABX2 US: https://www.amazon.com/Tryst-Monique-Roffey-ebook/dp/B072BX51PV/

Book trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=esSTfsbP3P4&sns=em

Twitter: @MoniqueRoffey13

Facebook: @MoniqueRoffeyAuthor

Instagram: @MoniqueRoffey

Website: www.moniqueroffey.com

The Journal by Liv Honeywell and Domitri Xavier

Guest Blogger, , , , , , ,

The JournalBlurb:

“Come to my study at eight o’clock sharp. Dress for dinner. Wear high heels and put on that dress – you know what I expect of you.”

When the order comes Livia is torn between anticipation and dread.

Does he know? How could he possibly know what she has done? And how can she find the words and the courage to tell him?

As eight o’clock edges ever nearer, Livia waits outside the study door, trembling; uncertain of what she will find when she comes face to face with her Master.

If he knows… If he does, there will be consequences. There is no doubt about that.

What will be the price for her moment of disobedience?

 

Excerpt:

He heard the knock on the door of his study. This was her signal that she had complied with all his instructions, not a request to enter. She would come in when he said so and she would never dare to knock again.

He had asked her to dress immaculately, smartly; as if they were going to dinner. Her hair must be perfect, away from her face. Her make up flawless, perhaps to look a little tarty, but she would know how far to go and the penalties for going over the top. She would be wearing elegant, high heeled shoes.

He told her to come in, gently, softly; as if she were merely coming in for a coffee or cocktails. Immediately she stepped into the room; looking down with her hands behind her. She would never look at his face directly without his express permission.

“Come to me.”

She had no idea what to expect. Would he be soft and tender? Or would he sweep her off her feet by mauling her like an animal. She knew that her body was his and he could treat it in any way that pleased him.

He ran his fingers through her hair, gently folding it back and forth and her head moved with his every gesture. Then he thrust his fingers deep toward her skull and tugged at her hair, moving her head in all directions. She let out an involuntary squeal.

“This is no time for making such noises.”

The quiet scream stopped immediately. She was under his power, his presence; his dominance. There was never any doubt about it.

He put his hands over her eyes and closed them, turning her face downwards. With effortless ease, he bound her hands behind her by her wrists and elbows. He loved the way that this pushed her breasts forwards and outwards. He had no need to bind her but it pleased him; a bound woman was an aesthetic pleasure.

He put one hand over her mouth. The other roamed over every contour of her body; her pouting breasts, her waist, behind her neck. He moved to her pussy and felt that it was already wet. Then both hands wandered quickly and powerfully over her whole body. She let out a yelp of pleasure which he immediately silenced with his strong fingers. She was his to do with as he wished.

He turned away from her, then turned back to look. She was beautiful. She was his. Her pain would be his pleasure…

________________

I knocked on the study door, quietly, almost hesitantly. I knew so well the knots in the wood, the whorls and lines of the grain. How many times had I stood here, gazing at this door; trying to guess what would happen when I opened it?

I wondered how long he would have me wait. I didn’t know what to think. Did he somehow know what I’d done? Had he been waiting for me to tell him, giving me the chance to own up? Hoping that I would before he had to make me? I couldn’t imagine how he could know, but… he had sounded distracted earlier. Not like himself.

I’d so wanted to confess. I really had. I’d tried all day yesterday. I’d tried today as well but I couldn’t make myself say it. I didn’t want to see the look of disappointment in his eyes, the awful expression on his face that would come from knowing I’d done something absolutely forbidden.

And… and I was scared of the punishment, of how bad it would be. And now I’d made it worse. Not only for me but for him too. For how much more I’d let him down by not telling him the truth.

I hoped I could find the nerve to say it now. Maybe I could find a way to explain, though I wasn’t sure I could explain it to myself. What on earth had I done?

I hoped he would allow me to speak, or I wouldn’t be able to say a word, not even to confess. What would I do then? Wait until he was done with me and then tell him? Wait until he had used my body, whichever way he chose; wait until he had given me pleasure which I surely didn’t deserve?

Then what? If I couldn’t find the nerve now, if I hadn’t found it earlier, what on earth made me think I would find it then?

I reached out and lightly traced the pattern of the wood with a finger tip. My hand was trembling and I slowed my breathing, doing my best to relax.

Then I heard his voice; such a beautiful deep voice, so calm and gentle. It gave me no clue to what he was thinking, to what he would do this time.

I took a deep breath and pushed open the door, closing it quietly behind me; keeping my eyes lowered the whole time. I clasped my hands behind my back and waited.

“Come to me,” he said.

‘Always,’ I thought. ‘Whenever you wish it.’ I didn’t say it, of course. I knew better than to speak without permission.

I kept my hands behind my back and walked over to him, my high heels clicking on the hard wood floor. I dared not look at him, but I so wanted to. Perhaps for reassurance that he wouldn’t hurt me, although I knew he would; perhaps to see if the gentleness in his voice was there in his eyes; perhaps to search for something, anything in his expression to tell me what he was thinking.

He lifted a hand toward my face and I tried not to flinch, but he merely stroked my hair, twining his fingers through the length of it. I began to relax, leaning my head into his hand, until he grabbed a handful of hair close to my scalp and pulled hard, and I couldn’t help letting out a small squeak of surprise.

“This is no time for making such noises,” he said, still so calmly, so controlled, and I bit back the sound, unable to rid myself of the feeling that this was the calm before the storm.

His fingers gently covered and closed my eyes, and then I stood quietly while he tied my hands behind my back. Now I couldn’t even see what was coming, and even if I could, I was helpless to prevent it.

He clamped his hand firmly over my mouth, stopping even the chance to protest, as his other hand explored my body, stroking and caressing – over my breasts, across my hips, between my legs. I blushed as I realised he must know how aroused I was.

He released my mouth and inspected my body with both hands, squeezing my breasts and my bottom, stroking my face, touching between my legs once more. I moaned softly and he covered my mouth again, muffling any noise I might make.

Was I not to be allowed even the slightest sound? To have to keep silent no matter what he might do to me? The thought of his control made me shiver and I swallowed hard, trying to hold back a sudden rush of desire. I tried to still myself, wondering if he had noticed.

Of course. Of course he had. He noticed everything. I wondered if it would make a difference to what he would do. If it pleased him that I couldn’t hide my reactions or if I would be punished for moving, however slightly?

He stepped away from me and I waited for what would come…

 

Buying Links:

The Journal is available from Amazon US – http://amzn.to/1bcR1CG and Amazon UK – http://amzn.to/1dxf9wI.

 

Author Bios:

Liv Honeywell:

When not writing about delicious, hot male dominants and the female subs who love them, I’m usually doing something craft-like, reading, baking, eating the results of said baking, and attempting to satisfy the demands of His High and Mighty Dominance (the cat!). My first story, Imagine, was published with Silver Moon Books last year and Coming, Ready or Not is my first solo book. The Journal was co-written with Domitri Xavier.

You can follow me on my blog – http://www.liv-honeywell.com, Twitter – http://www.twitter.com/LivHoneywell, Facebook –https://www.facebook.com/LivHoneywellErotica, Goodreads – http://www.goodreads.com/LivHoneywell and my Amazon page is here: https://www.amazon.com/author/livhoneywell

 

Domitri Xavier:

Domitri Xavier comes from a rich heritage, including Russia, France and Yorkshire. He is the quintessential English gentleman and lives alone in his cavernous mansion, Upton Abbey.

Domitri is not only a writer, composer, pianist, raconteur, wit and poet, he also enjoys a number of hobbies; he breeds Basset Hounds, plays chess (although he has yet to record a victory) and he is a renowned collector of used tea bags – Earl Grey, naturally.

He fills his remaining time writing erotic fiction, much of it based on his own lifestyle at the Abbey.

The Journal is his first book and his poems have been published on Bitten Press’s website – http://www.akissofpoetry.com/211723089

You can find Domitri on Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/DomitriXavierErotica, his Facebook friend page is https://www.facebook.com/domitri.xavier, his blog is http://domitrixavier.wordpress.com, his Goodreads page is http://www.goodreads.com/DomitriXavier and his Amazon page is http://amazon.com/author/domitrixavier.

First, unwrap your truffle…

Press, , , , , , ,

“Don’t bite… savour it, roll it around in your mouth. There are places on the tongue that taste only sweet and places that taste only bitter or salt or sour… Caress it in your mouth, and you’ll be amazed at what you taste…”

That is from The Initiation Of Ms Holly by KD Grace, an erotic novel. Mummy porn. It was published by Xcite, an imprint of Accent Books, based at The Old School, Bedlinog, Glamorgan.

I’ve always liked women’s fiction. It tends to be more psychologically-acute, probes deeper into emotions. And women writers, generally, are better at sex. Less self-conscious.

By the time you read this, probably something like one in three women in Wales will have read the so-called ‘mummy-porn’ sado-masochistic, bondage shlockbuster Fifty Shades Of Grey by EL James.

Read the rest of this article at BBC Wales Arts.